Three Colored Cat | W. Jh
Genre: Dad Au
Type: Fluff, angst
Word count: 3k
Summary: What is the best thing in the world? The three colored cat!
“Baba, that’s a cat.”
Anya’s tiny arms were looped tightly around Jun’s neck as he carried her from daycare toward the car. Her finger — small, chubby, and still sticky from afternoon snacks — pointed at a kitten crouched beside the rear tire, its tail flicking lazily under the warm after-school light.
“Mm, yes, that’s a cat,” Jun replied, amusement softening his voice. He slowed his steps so she could get a better look, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. Anya leaned forward, squinting with the seriousness only four-year-olds could muster.
“Ugly color!” she declared with complete confidence.
Jun sniffed back a laugh, his shoulders shaking.
“Nooo,” he drawled dramatically, pretending to be offended. “It’s a three-colored cat. There’s no such thing as an ugly-color cat.”
Anya tilted her head — her usual thinking pose — lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Then she released a long, exaggerated sigh. “Alright. What color cat?”
“Three-colored cat,” Jun repeated, smiling as he shifted her higher on his hip.
“Oh!” Anya perked up instantly, kicking her legs in excitement. “It has orange! And black! And lots of white! Cute!”
Her joy burst out of her like sunlight — warm, bright, and impossible to contain. She wriggled in his arms as if ready to launch straight toward the kitten, and Jun tightened his hold with a soft grin, laughter slipping out before he could stop it.
“Can we bring it home, please?” she pleaded. “I’ll take care of it. Promise.” Her eyes grew round and glossy — the exact weapon she used whenever she wanted something. A tiny pout trembled at the corners of her mouth, just enough to make Jun’s heart clench in the helpless way only fathers understood.
“We need Mama’s permission for that,” he said gently, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. His tone carried that soft responsibility — the kind meant to cushion disappointment without crushing hope.
Anya froze. Her pout deepened. “But Baba…”
“That’s the rule,” he reminded her, tapping the tip of her nose. “Big decisions need Mama’s yes.”
She slumped against his shoulder with dramatic defeat, letting out a sigh far too heavy for a four-year-old.
“Mama always says no…”
Jun smiled — quiet, helpless — because she wasn’t entirely wrong. “Well,” he murmured, lowering his head to kiss her hair, “maybe she’ll say yes this time.”
Anya peeked up, hope flickering back into her eyes like a small spark relighting. “If I say ‘please’?”
“If you say please,” Jun whispered, “and… maybe if the kitty likes you back.”
As if summoned, the tricolor kitten let out a soft meow and turned its head toward them, its eyes curious and unafraid.
Anya’s mouth fell open in wonder. “Baba,” she whispered urgently, tugging at his shirt, “I think it likes me.”
She hesitated — a tiny, worried crease forming between her brows. “But what if Mama still says no?”
Jun shifted her closer, lowering his voice to something tender and steady. “I’ll find a way, baby,” he promised. “Anything for you.”
*
“No…”
You stared at the bathroom light switch like it personally betrayed you. One click. Nothing. Another click. Still darkness.
You let out a long, dramatic sigh and facepalmed. Of course. Of course he did. There was only one man in this house capable of creating chaos with the confidence of a movie villain, your husband, Jun.
First, the jar incident. Every lid tightened to the strength level of “Olympic gold medalist.” You’d nearly dislocated your shoulder trying to open the salt. And of course you had to call him over for help. Which was extra annoying because you two had just argued about the tricolor kitten Anya begged to adopt.
Second, the water spontaneously giving up on life while you were washing dishes. You’d been mid-scrubbing a plate when the faucet sputtered.
Cue you yelling, “Jun, the sink is having a breakdown.”
He “fixed” it and, very conveniently, took over dish duty with suspicious cheerfulness.
And now? The bathroom light. Sabotaged. You flicked the switch again — aggressively this time — just to make sure he heard.
Right on cue, Jun appeared in the doorway of the master bedroom like he’d been waiting backstage for his entrance.
“What’s wrong, babe?” he asked, voice all soft innocence.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, giving him your best “I am onto you” stare.
“Why? What happened?” he said, mirroring your posture — leaning back on the wall, arms crossed, smile growing way too fast for someone who was supposedly concerned.
“Stop it,” you said flatly. “You know I don’t like cats anymore.”
Jun lifted his eyebrows as if you just accused him of murder.
“We’re done talking about the cat, babe,” he declared, hand on his chest like a man reciting wedding vows. “You said it was final. No cats. And I respect that.”
He said it so sweetly you almost believed him. Almost. Except for the tiny smug curl at the corner of his mouth.
You exhaled sharply and ran your fingers through your hair. “Then explain this,” you gestured wildly. “The jars. The water. And now—”
You flicked the switch again like you were summoning a ghost. “The light won’t even turn on.”
Jun walked toward you, humming thoughtfully, inspecting the light with all the seriousness of a man checking a potato.
“I’ll fix it, babe,” he said, patting your shoulder. “No need to get all worked up.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, I am worked up. I’m fully worked. I’m premium worked.”
Jun bit back a laugh — badly. “Why would I sabotage the house?” he asked, as if the answer wasn’t four years old, chubby-cheeked, and currently plotting with crayons in the living room.
You crossed your arms tighter. “Because you and your daughter want a cat.”
Jun pressed his lips together. “Allegedly,” he corrected.
You threw your hands up. “Oh my God.”
He leaned closer, smiling like you just declared war. “Babe,” he whispered dramatically, “this is all a coincidence.” You stared at him. Another flick. Dark.
He stared back. “…Coincidence?” you repeated.
Jun nodded, eyes sparkling. “A very adorable coincidence.”
Jun tightened the last screw on the light fixture, stepped back with a flourish, and flicked the switch. The bathroom lit up instantly. He turned to you with both hands raised like he’d just completed a magic trick.
“Done. You may do your thing here, your majesty.”
You stared at him. Long. Hard. The kind of stare that usually came right before you chose patience over prison time.
Then you sighed. A deep, soul-drained sigh. “I don’t want to act childish,” you said slowly, “but you’re definitely doing one, Wen Junhui.”
Jun clutched his chest dramatically. “I didn’t do anything, babe…”
“Yes,” you muttered, brushing past him, “and I’m the Queen of England.”
You stepped into the shower, letting the water drown out your irritation. But the whole time, you could practically feel Jun smirking from outside — smug, confident, absolutely certain he’d win.
And annoyingly, he would.
By the time you stepped out, skin warm and hair damp, Jun was sprawled on the bed like he owned every inch of it. One arm behind his head, shirt riding up just enough to show the faint lines of his stomach — he always looked like this right after mischief, relaxed and very, very pleased with himself.
You grabbed your towel tighter. “Jun,” you called.
He hummed, eyes on you instantly.
You exhaled, defeated but strangely lighter. “Bring that cat,” you said. A pause. “Tomorrow.”
*
Anya had been talking nonstop since the moment Jun buckled her into her car seat.
The kitten — tiny, fluffy, and extremely confused — sat in the small carrier Jun had oh-so-mysteriously “already prepared,” right beside her. Every few seconds, a tiny paw poked through the bars, batting at the air.
“Mama, it likes fruit names,” Anya declared with the confidence of a CEO presenting a business proposal.
Jun tried — truly tried — to keep his eyes on the road, but his smile kept growing each time Anya babbled another name.
“Kiwi,” she repeated, leaning forward to stick her face against the carrier. “Do you like Kiwi? Blink if yes.”
The kitten blinked. Anya gasped dramatically. “Baba! It said yes!”
Jun laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “That’s not how blinking works, baby.”
“Yes it is,” she insisted, crossing her arms with a tiny huff. “Cats blink when they like you.”
You turned a little in your seat, raising a brow. “She’s not wrong,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else.
Jun shot you a look — that soft, ridiculously fond look — the one that appeared any time you defended his daughter’s logic.
Anya wasn’t done. “Or Banana!” she chirped, tapping the cage lightly. “Banana is yellow. This cat has orange. Orange is ALMOST yellow. So Banana!”
The kitten meowed once, confused but cooperative.
Jun let out another quiet laugh, the kind that rumbled warmly through the car. “She’s really committed,” he said, glancing at you with a grin. “Kiwi or Banana, huh?”
You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your lips betrayed you, curving up despite yourself.
“But… isn’t Kiwi Banana gonna be scared to go to the doctor?”
Anya’s voice was small but grave, the kind of seriousness only a four-year-old could summon over a tiny creature sitting in a pet carrier.
They were on the way to the vet, and the kitten — newly christened Kiwi Banana, thanks to Anya’s triumphant declaration of “Three colors, two names, one kitten!” — let out a soft mewl from inside the cage.
Jun glanced at her through the rearview mirror. “You think so, baby?”
“Yes,” she said immediately, clutching her stuffed bunny tighter. “Doctor means needles. And needles means… ouchie.”
She made a little face, scrunching her nose in sympathy toward the kitten.
You turned slightly in your seat. “Anya, the vet is a nice doctor. They help animals feel better so they can grow strong and healthy.”
Anya didn’t look convinced.
“But Baba, what if Kiwi Banana thinks we’re betraying it? We just met! What if it runs away from home and never forgives us and becomes—”
She paused dramatically.
“—a wild forest cat?”
Jun’s laugh slipped out before he could catch it. “A wild forest cat?” he echoed.
“Yes!” she said, pointing one finger into the air like she was explaining a legal clause. “Because if you feel betrayed… you go to forest.”
You pressed your lips together, holding back a laugh.
“Is that how it works?”
“Yes,” she said again, with absolute finality.
Jun shook his head with a smile. “Baby, Kiwi Banana won’t get scared. You know why?”
Anya leaned forward a little. “Why?”
“Because you’re going with it,” Jun said gently. “And Kiwi Banana already likes you.”
The kitten meowed right on cue, as if agreeing.
Anya gasped softly, eyes going wide.
“Baba… it said yes again.”
Jun shot you a look — proud, soft, slightly smug — and your heart dipped, warm, despite your earlier resistance.
You turned back to Anya. “And you can hold its paw while the doctor checks it, okay? That’ll make it feel safe.”
“Mama,” Anya said suddenly, her tone shifting into that quiet, suspicious softness children use right before exposing adult secrets.
“You seem to know a lot about cats.”
“I thought you don’t like cats,” she added, squinting at you like a tiny investigator.
You cleared your throat. “I don’t dislike cats,” you said carefully. “I just… don’t prefer them.”
Anya tilted her head. “But you said vet is nice doctor. And you held Kiwi Banana like he’s a fragile egg. And you said he needs warm towel and quiet place and also you wiped his eye—”
“Okay, okay, detective,” you cut in, holding up a hand. “I know basic things.”
Jun turned his head for a second, the movement small, almost hesitant—like he’d just said something he wasn’t sure he was supposed to.
“Mama used to have… ten cats,” he said quietly.
The words hung there, softer than before, slipping into the air the way old memories tend to resurface—uninvited, but gentle.
You didn’t respond right away.
Your gaze had drifted somewhere past the kitten, past the parking lot, past the afternoon light—somewhere Jun couldn’t follow. Not yet.
Anya, oblivious, perked up. “Ten? Mama, really?”
But Jun wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was looking at you. The way your fingers tightened slightly on the strap of your bag. The way your breath paused—just a moment.
The way your eyes stayed distant, even though your face tried to arrange itself into something casual. He’d heard the story before—briefly, vaguely. Ten cats. A busy little house. You, smiling in every memory.
You finally blinked, shaking yourself back. “That was… a long time ago,” you murmured, giving a small smile that didn’t sit the way your real smiles usually do.
Jun watched you for another second—really watched—before turning back to Anya.
“Yeah,” he said, gentle. “A long time ago.”
The tone settled over the three of you like a soft breeze—warm, but carrying something else in it. Something unspoken. But for now, he didn’t press.
For now, he just understood.
*
“We’re doing it together…”
“Don’t leave me!”
“Please…”
“Don’t—!”
You shot up with a broken gasp, air clawing its way into your lungs. Your chest heaved, fingers trembling against the sheets as the last echo of the nightmare clung to you like something alive.
Jun stirred immediately. He blinked awake, already reaching for you before he was fully conscious.
“Love?” His voice was soft, rough from sleep. “What’s wrong?”
You couldn’t answer—your breaths came short and sharp, sweat cooling along your temples. He pushed himself upright beside you, worry settling into his features the moment he saw your expression.
“Hey… hey.” Jun cupped the back of your head gently, guiding your forehead to his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just a dream.”
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, as if needing proof that he was real—that he was here.
Jun wrapped an arm around you, firm and grounding, the kind of embrace that held you without trapping you.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your hair. “I’m right here.”
The room was dark and still, the only sound was your uneven breathing—slowly, slowly softening as his thumb traced steady circles on your arm, coaxing you back into the present.
“Is it the fire again?” Jun asked quietly, once your breathing began to steady.
You hesitated—then gave a small nod.
Jun didn’t press. He simply reached over to the nightstand, fingers closing around the glass of water he always left there for you before bed. Just in case.
“Here,” he murmured.
You took it with slightly trembling hands and brought it to your lips, sipping slowly. The cool water helped—grounding you, pulling you away from the lingering heat of the flames in your dream. Jun watched you with gentle eyes, his hand resting lightly against your back, steady and present.
When you lowered the glass, he brushed a strand of hair from your face.
“You’re safe, love.”
The dream always came the same way— a fire swallowing your childhood home, flames crawling up the walls faster than your legs could run. And your cats— all ten of them— were trapped inside.
In the dream, you always tried. You always screamed for them. You always reached for the door even when the heat blistered your skin. And just like every time, you always failed.
Only one of them had survived in real life. It had escaped the fire by a miracle— bolting out through the back window just in time. You found it the next day, shaking so hard its small body rattled against your arms.
Life after losing the house was no kinder. You moved from place to place, your one surviving cat clutched to your chest, its terrified eyes mirroring your own. The only difference was that you’d become good at pretending you weren’t scared.
“We’re doing this together,” you used to whisper to it at night.
But even together wasn’t enough. It left you, too— not by choice, but by life’s cruelty. And the wound it carved into you never really healed.
You remembered crying over the tiny grave, hands shaking as you pressed the soil down. “I should’ve given you a home.”
That guilt settled in your bones. And from then on, you weren’t the same. You distanced yourself from cats— from the memories, from the attachment, from the possibility of losing something you loved that deeply again. Any cat was too close to the past. Too close to the fire. Too close to the pain you never let yourself revisit.
You ended up on the living room couch that night, legs curled beneath a blanket, the shadows quiet around you. Sleep wouldn’t come—not after the nightmare, not with your heart still unsteady.
Jun was already fast asleep in the bedroom, worn out from the day. And you— you didn’t want to show him this side of you again. Not tonight.
A tiny meow broke the silence.
You blinked, surprised. Kiwi Banana—somehow—was already padding across the floor, wobbling a little as it hurried toward you. You hadn’t even noticed Anya’s door was open a crack.
Before you could react, the kitten hopped onto the couch and plopped onto your lap, immediately purring. Its tiny paws kneaded at the blanket as it made itself comfortable, then finally rested its head on your thigh with a soft sigh.
A small smile tugged at your lips. The ache in your chest loosened. “You’re just like her,” you whispered. Your old tricolor cat. “Same color… same personality.”
Kiwi Banana answered with a muted little meow— whether in agreement or mild complaint, you couldn’t tell. You let out a tiny chuckle anyway. The fear you’d been carrying—of loving a cat again, of remembering—faded just a little.
“Tell me she’s okay…” you murmured, hand brushing gently over its tiny back. Kiwi Banana cracked one eye open, stared at you, meowed once— and then, in true cat fashion, turned around to present its butt to you before settling down again.
You snorted softly. “Rude,” you whispered, still smiling.
You leaned slowly against the couch’s armrest, your hand resting lightly on the kitten’s side. Kiwi Banana’s breathing grew slow, steady—warm against your leg.
And before you realized it, lulled by the soft purring and the quiet comfort, your eyes drifted shut. Sleep came easier this time.
*
You woke to the soft sound of someone whispering nearby—light, excited, and terribly close to your ear.
“Mama… Mamaaa, look…”
Your eyelids fluttered open, slow and heavy. Morning sunlight was already spilling through the curtains, warm and gold against your skin. The blanket had slipped halfway off, and curled right on top of your stomach was Kiwi Banana, purring like an engine.
Then you saw Anya. She was kneeling beside the couch in her pajama shorts, hair sticking in every direction, eyes wide with pure wonder.
“Mama, you’re soooo cute…” she whispered dramatically, as if she’d stumbled upon a rare forest creature. “Sleeping with Kiwi Banana… like best friends…”
You groaned softly, rubbing your face. Kiwi Banana stretched, tiny paws pressing into your shirt before settling again. “Anya… why are you awake this early?”
Though judging from the light, it wasn’t that early—just earlier than your usual waking time.
She puffed her cheeks. “I woke up and kitty wasn’t in my room! So I followed it. And then—” she pointed at you with all the intensity of a detective revealing a culprit— “I found this.”
You glanced down at the kitten sprawled on you like a warm, furry badge.
“Mama likes Kiwi Banana now?” Anya asked, hope sparkling in her eyes.
The kitten yawned—as if answering for you.
You exhaled, resigned. “…Maybe a little.”
Anya clapped both hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. It didn’t work. “BABA!!” she shrieked towards the hallway, “MAMA LOVES KIWI BANANA!!”
From the bedroom came Jun’s sleepy, confused voice, “What—already? It’s morning…”
You covered your face again. Too late. L The whole house already knew.
Kiwi Banana didn’t stay that tiny for long. Months passed, and somehow the kitten who once fit perfectly on your stomach grew into a round, spoiled ball of fur—with a belly that jiggled when it trotted and a face that had perfected the art of guilt-tripping you into extra treats.
Jun swore it wasn’t his fault. You swore it wasn’t yours. Anya didn’t swear anything—she openly blamed both of you.
“Mama, you love Kiwi Banana too much,” she complained one afternoon as the cat waddled proudly across the living room like a royal parade float.
You scooped the chunky creature into your arms anyway. “And what’s wrong with that?”
Kiwi Banana purred, melting into your embrace with the confidence of a cat who knew it was adored.
The fear you once held—the ache of old memories, the guilt, the trauma—had softened over time, replaced by something gentler. Something healing.
Jun wrapped an arm around your shoulders from behind, resting his chin lightly on your head as he watched the cat kneading your shirt with chubby paws.
“Told you,” he murmured with a smile, “you were always a cat person.”
You shot him a look. He kissed your cheek anyway. Kiwi Banana flopped dramatically in your arms, exposing its belly in complete trust.
And for the first time in a long, long while, loving a cat didn’t hurt. It felt like coming home. The home you built now—warm, noisy, messy, full of laughter. Full of Jun, full of Anya.
And full of one very fat, very loved Kiwi Banana.
End.
Footnote:
Grief lingers, but love does, too.
Two years ago, the fire took my home… and all the little lives I loved within it. The guilt clung to me like smoke, staining everything I touched. But my tricolor Simi — my brave girl — survived long enough to show me that even in ruin, love doesn’t burn out so easily.
Fly high, my baby.
I carry you in every quiet morning, every soft memory, every warm place my heart still knows how to hold.
You are forever remembered.
